Mr. Christhmas

Mr Christhmas,
the old man with the silver bart,
never passes through the fields of boredom.
Fir trees loosing their needles, under the weight of the lights.
It still burns, deep down,
this glim, trembling in awe of you.
Wadding drowns out the heartbeats in the ears of the deaf
or was it maybe snow?
Come: I am waiting for you Mr. Christhmas!
My letter to you is still sealed, there on the table.
I am cocooning myself now, in front of the window,
immaculate snowflakes, stolen from the countryside
adorning my loose air,
times of child flowing before my eyes.
Come, before the rut catches me!
Stumps being consumed in the fireplace,
…..me waiting your return, his one.